I began all attempts by containing the breathscatter into a you, a series of you, as in you could not know, as in you could not. It wasn’t that I had no you to address, but the you felt like some passage into moral approbation, as rain is necessary for a kind of ablution. As in, I needed you to believe me. As in, you could not follow me up a tree. As in, of course you could. There have been many you’s, you see, they lingered remarkably, they curled into balls and tucked into my spine, an insensitive metaphor I know. What does it mean to listen to a harp player over the speakers in a coffeeshop, to split the self into its conditions. As in, blood is a metaphor for blood and I know few other nouns so figurative until they exit us. This is how I see me too. And against such fastenings I see the indifference of an army as it steers closer, another insensitive metaphor. The daily practice becomes the radio that blares song after song with no curatorial sense. It conforms to the dream of the very thing we thought to escape. And why escape at all, why you, why must you? I record the days by how I own my mistakes, and this explains why time hits too heavily, why a blade no matter how dull needs its hilt. I read yesterday of Thomas Jefferson’s disdain of literature, that he saw it as a “bloated imagination, sickly judgment and disgust towards all the real business of life,” and I think of my thighs, always stuck together by their own flattening, by blood, by sex, by rotted linen. I think I am always in the midst of disgust and that it drives me toward a faded entity: A figure on a stairwell peering down the empty geometry of below, and I, I steeped in the self as it recollects an other, how I gaze back up, how I in incomplete wonder.